


Virginity

by thinkpink20



Series: Virginity [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: First Time, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-24
Updated: 2012-02-24
Packaged: 2017-10-31 16:24:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,190
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/346112
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thinkpink20/pseuds/thinkpink20
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first part in my 'Virginity' series.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Virginity

It's been a long day - a long _week_ actually, and the office is quiet. They wrapped up the latest case nearly five hours ago, but since then it's been paper cups of coffee and scribbles on reports. Lestrade wants to go home, but he thinks he's gone past sleep, right through tiredness to awake again.

A noise outside in the main office rouses him from the note writing; he looks up, sees the familiar figure of Sherlock sweeping through the far door, hair ragged and a mess.

"I thought you went home," Lestrade frowns, letting himself sit back in his chair. His shoulder hurts where he's been hunched over all evening.

"I did," Sherlock replies, coming into the office. He looks grumpy. "Then I came back again."

"Can't sleep?"

Sherlock leans forward and grabs Lestrade's coffee, gives it a sniff. "Oi!"

"You're going to deny me coffee?" Sherlock asks. He scowls like the whole world is his, then takes a gulp. It's probably cold by now. "No, John went out to see Sarah. I'm bored."

"So you thought you'd come here and bother me." 

Lestrade takes back some of the papers Sherlock has now picked up - classified police information - and ignores the resulting pout. 

"Have you got any interesting new cases?"

He sighs. "You've only just finished on the last one; let's hope there aren't any more insane serial killers on the loose for a while, eh?"

Again, Sherlock pouts. "I'm hungry then; are you going to get me something to eat?"

It's taken him five years, but Lestrade is no longer surprised by this sort of behaviour - Sherlock acts like everyone works for him though in reality, no one does. He's long since learned to just go along with it; he's a genius and, at the end of the day, Lestrade needs him.

"Alright, let me finish up here."

They get chips and go down along Victoria Embankment; it's late so it's quieter than usual, but they still pass the odd jogger, a few Japanese tourists out with their cameras trying to get some images of London by night. 

Sherlock eats like he hasn't been fed in days, which Lestrade suspects is probably true, considering he seems to suspend everything about his normal life during cases. It's odd, that he only gets these brief glimpses into Sherlock's life, but he suspects probably any more and he'd go insane.

"Don't you have any _friends_ you can go and bother?" Lestrade asks. He already knows the answer.

"I have some _enemies..."_ Sherlock replies. His voice sounds light and more playful than usual, away from the intensity of a case.

"So I'm the nearest thing you've got to a friend," he says, quickly swallowing a particularly hot chip.

"You should blow on them first," Sherlock tells him. "They did lab tests with mice, gave them scalding hot food and found that 35% contracted cancer of the throat on account of the membranes being constantly stripped away by the heat from the - "

"Yeah, thank you," Lestrade interrupts. "I'm trying to enjoy these, if you don't mind."

They walk on in silence for a little way, then Sherlock speaks again. "You're not, really."

"Not what?"

"The nearest thing I have to a friend - that would be John. You're more a... colleague."

"Oh, lovely," Lestrade smiles, blowing on a chip. 

"Why is that _lovely?"_ Sherlock asks, the word sounding foreign on his tongue.

"Well, I don't know... 'Colleague' is the way you refer to someone you work with that you don't particularly like - anyone else is a friend."

"Are they?" Sherlock frowns. He looks around at the various people passing them and then finally rests on Lestrade. "You're funny little human beings, aren't you? All those little boxes and labels for each other floating around in your heads."

"At least we _have_ friends," Lestrade replies, licking a smear of vinegar off his thumb. "You just have people who buy you chips and listen to you ramble."

"I'm not _rambling._ I never ramble, it would be an entirely gross waste of words."

Lestrade grins at him and then waits - after a second Sherlock cracks and smiles back. For some reason Lestrade always appreciates Sherlock's smiles more than other people's, simply because they're so hard won.

"So John's off out with Sarah, then - that's the doctor, right?"

"GP, yes," Sherlock replies, and his tone sounds sharp and acidic.

"And you're jealous?"

"What? No." His stare burrows into Lestrade briefly. "John's absence compounds my boredom, it does not make me 'jealous'."

"I'm sure he's thinking about you," Lestrade grins, and Sherlock shoots him a withering glare in return. "Maybe if you made some of those things - y'know, _friends_ \- you'd have something to keep you occupied."

"I don't _need_ friends."

"Seems to me like you do," Lestrade tells him, then screws up his empty chip wrapper and throws it in the nearest bin. Sherlock finished a short time ago, but is still holding his as though waiting for someone to clean up after him. Lestrade takes the paper, brushes his hand accidentally as he does so and then discards it in the bin. He doesn't mind doing things for him, not really.

"Well?" Sherlock asks.

"Well what?"

"I need a drink; where are you taking me?"

Lestrade sighs, slips his hands in his trouser pockets in resignation. "A pub?"

Sherlock wrinkles his nose. "I don't do pubs; I want a drink, not a headache."

"Right, fine, it'll have to be my place, then."

Sherlock has only ever been inside his flat twice in the past, once in the middle of a case for an evidence bag Lestrade had taken home with him and the second time was when he was ill - the replacement DI sent down by the chief was being non-cooperative with Sherlock's 'unique' style of working so he'd stormed round and banged on the door until a flu-ridden Lestrade had agreed to sort it out. On neither occasion had he stayed long, not long enough to do any snooping, anyway.

"You look a lot like your father," Sherlock says, when they're safely inside and Lestrade is measuring out the whisky. The heating has been on timer so the place is warm, if never really quite 'homely'.

"He was young there," Lestrade nods, indicating the photo Sherlock has in his hand. "Not long after I was born."

Sherlock hums as he looks at the picture again, narrows his eyes. "He's handsome."

"Oi, nosey." Lestrade taps Sherlock carefully with the whisky glass until he looks up, takes it from him.

"And your mother?"

"What about my mother?" 

He sits himself down on the sofa, wonders if Sherlock will stand on ceremony all night by the fire like that, picking at his photographs.

"A nurse, I presume?"

Lestrade smiles. Sometimes, when it's useless information like that, he doesn't mind Sherlock being able to to do clever little guessing tricks. "A cancer nurse, yeah."

"And then she died from the disease herself."

"How did you - "

"Sometimes you wear a pin," Sherlock explains, and touches the lapel of his coat. He's right, sometimes Lestrade does, one of the pink breast cancer ones they sell to raise money. He always buys one if he sees one.

"Don't miss a trick you, do you?" Lestrade asks, taking a sip of his whisky.

"It's nothing, just a simple observation," Sherlock mutters, then picks up the other photograph on the mantel. "Is this Hannah?"

When Lestrade doesn't answer immediately, he turns around. Lestrade just nods at him.

"She looks young," he says, "When you first met? University?"

"At a party two weeks before I joined the Met," Lestrade replies, feeling smug. "See? You don't know everything, do you?"

Sherlock smiles at him then goes back to looking at the picture - she would have probably bloody loved him, always taking in homeless strays, feeding them up. There were cats hanging round the back door for about a year after she died, disappointed he could barely feed himself, never mind them.

"Will you bloody sit down?" He finally asks, "You're making the place look untidy."

Surprisingly, Sherlock does as he's told, placing the picture of Hannah back on the mantelpiece and coming over to the sofa, joining him. He curls his legs up like a child, which Lestrade didn't expect, and studies his whisky.

"You keep a surprisingly good malt."

"Present from the Governor after that case a few months ago, the one with the locked door mystery."

"I solved that for you!" Sherlock says, outraged. "Technically this should be my whisky!"

"Well you're drinking it, aren't you?" Lestrade smiles.

"Any other gifts from your superiors I should know about that were really meant for me?"

"I'm sure Anderson will give you the gift of a good hard smack, if you let him."

"Ugh," Sherlock moans. "Tiresome man. You do know he's sleeping with your Sergeant?"

"Yes thank you," Lestrade yawns, "You're not the only one with eyes."

There is the beat of a peaceful moment's silence and then - "You want me to go."

"Sorry?" Lestrade frowns.

"You yawned and didn't try to hide it, either a lack of self-embarrassment or a signal you hope I'll pick up on and leave you alone to sleep."

"I don't - " He stops, realises what he was about to say. Does he really mean that? "It was just a yawn, Sherlock. Not everything means something."

"Rubbish," Sherlock replies, looking at him carefully. "Of _course_ everything means something."

"Not with me it doesn't." Lestrade picks up the whisky from the coffee table in front of them. "Refill?"

Sherlock narrows his eyes at him, then seems to decide upon something. Seconds later he holds out his glass for a refill.

They have three more each, but Lestrade is less pissed than he normally would be because of the full stomach of chips. Instead he just feels pleasantly warm, relaxed and off-guard from the game they've been playing.

"Alright, someone who had an unusual 'encounter' with an orgy when on holiday in Skegness."

Sherlock smirks with pride at the unashamed surprise that is no doubt showing all over Lestrade's features as he tries to guess who this was - Sherlock's sometimes uncomfortable knowledge of people's histories can also be rather interesting.

"John?"

"No."

"Donovan?"

"No."

Lestrade frowns. _"Mycroft?"_ Sherlock laughs, throaty and genuine. That'll be the whisky.

"No."

"God, I don't know - you?"

Sherlock rolls his eyes at this suggestion, then smirks again at the reveal. "Mrs Hudson."

"No!"

The smugness never leaves his face. "She has quite a colourful past, that woman."

"Bloody hell..." Lestrade exhales loudly, not quite able to believe it. She always seems so sweet. "Sounds like it. Alright, give us another one."

Sherlock thinks. "Someone who likes to be tied up. Tightly."

Lestrade is old enough and well-travelled enough not to blush. He stares at Sherlock carefully as he thinks, as though he might he able to mind-read the answer in some way. Sherlock returns his stare easily enough, though a slight shift in his features suggests he's no longer as comfortable as he was - Lestrade can read faces too, isn't a DI at the Yard by chance.

"God, Mrs Hudson again - it's not her, is it? If it is, don't tell me how you know."

Sherlock smiles. "No, not Mrs Hudson."

"John, then. Actually, if it's him don't tell me how you know that either."

Exasperated, he sighs. "No, not John. After his time in Afghanistan I doubt he ever wants to be damaged in any way again."

"Sally, then - Sergeant Donovan."

Sherlock nods, raises his whiskey glass in salute. "Bravo, knew you'd get there in the end."

"Red marks around her wrists last week?" Lestrade asks, taking another sip of his drink. "I saw those too."

"And around her ankles - look more carefully next time."

They share a knowing sort of smile and this time it's Sherlock who reaches for the whisky. He almost forgets Lestrade, until he nudges him with his knee. "Oi, genius." Sherlock pours him a liberal measure, then sets the bottle back down.

"So have you and John ever...?" 

Lestrade leaves the question hanging in the air, not really quite sure why he's asking until Sherlock looks at him, faintly alarmed.

"God, no."

"So you don't...?"

"What?"

"Well, you've obviously given it some thought, decided he wouldn't like being tied up..."

"Just because I have surmised that a war veteran wouldn't want to be put through even more pain during sexual japes does not mean I have considered sleeping with him," Sherlock frowns. "Besides, I don't think of him that way; it's John."

Lestrade finds himself wondering in the moment of quiet that follows. "So who _do_ you think of that way?"

Sherlock watches him. "No one."

"No one? You've never fancied anyone?"

"No."

"Bollocks," Lestrade grins.

"I should take that colourful ejaculation to mean that you don't believe me, should I?"

"Too right. You're a man, however much you try to rise above it - you must have fancied someone at some point."

"No, never," Sherlock replies, then glances down to his glass. 

"So you've never...?"

"What?"

"You've never had a girlfriend?" Then he quickly covers himself, "Or, y'know, a boyfriend."

"Never."

Lestrade finds this hard to believe. Sally's nickname for Sherlock floats into his mind briefly. "There must have been someone, just once; everyone has a fumble in high school, don't they? Or, I don't know, university?"

There is another long moment of quiet whilst Sherlock looks at his glass. When he glances back up, he shakes his head. "No."

"So you've never... You're a bloody virgin?" A soon as it's out of his mouth, he feels embarrassed about the raw surprise in his tone. Lestrade feels himself colour slightly. 

"Contrary to popular belief, sex is not the most interesting thing in life, Inspector."

"Yeah, I know, I just thought... Sorry."

Sherlock frowns. "What are you sorry for?"

"Well... I don't know. Just sorry."

The echo of a smile curls onto thin lips. "Pointless apology accepted, then."

Unsurprisingly, after that the conversation seems to stall. The sofa would be big enough for the both of them were they sitting properly but Sherlock is still sprawled like a somewhat grumpy teenager and Lestrade has turned and pulled one knee up, nestling against Sherlock's feet. He can feel toes wiggling against him, tickling his calf. There's no sound other than the ticking of the clock coming from the kitchen and the faint bass boom boom from a car parked up somewhere outside, picking up or dropping off.

"So... do you ever get turned on?"

Sherlock looks momentarily taken by surprise at the question, and Lestrade savours that - possibly the one and only time he will ever surprise him. He waits carefully for an answer, aware that Sherlock might tell him to piss off. Probably should, by rights.

"I... Yes, sometimes."

Genuinely intrigued, Lestrade doesn't seem to be able to stop himself from going on. That's _definitely_ the whisky. "So what turns you on, then?"

Sherlock smiles. "Is this an experiment?"

"No! I just... I wondered. It seems..."

"Strange?"

"Yes, frankly."

They share another unexpected smile. Lestrade starts to feel himself growing warmer, decides no more alcohol for tonight.

"Well, it's a bodily response, like eating or sleeping. Sometimes it just happens."

"Right, so you just - "

He doesn't say it, it's too crude and too personal. He feels like he's in the bloody playground again.

"Yes," Sherlock replies. "I just..."

Lestrade nods. "Right. And don't you ever... wish there was someone else there?"

The heartbeat it takes Sherlock to reply tells Lestrade instantly it's a lie. "No."

He realises in a distanced sort of way that this conversation is turning him on. It's been months (over a year, actually) since he last had sex, so he's more sensitive than he usually would be, but there's not really very much he can do about that. 

Other than stop the conversation, obviously.

"So have you ever... I mean, you have kissed someone, haven't you?"

Sherlock smiles. "Yes, Lestrade, I have kissed someone. More than one person, in fact."

"Right," he says, because that would have just been too strange. "And it was...?"

"And it was pleasant enough," Sherlock replies. 

Lestrade finds himself imagining kissing someone and not feeling anything other than 'pleasant'. Then he imagines Sherlock kissing someone, all analytical detail and precise touches and he realises he _really_ needs to stop this conversation now. His clothes suddenly feel too warm and restricting.

"Can I, ah - your bathroom?"

Sherlock's voice snaps him out of his imagination and Lestrade wonders how long they've been silent for whilst he's been wondering.

"Um, yeah, course - first on the right."

"Thank you."

Sherlock uncurls himself from the sofa, lingers at the edge of the seat for a moment and Lestrade realises why - he's hard. 

He catches Sherlock's eye. "Just - bodily response," he says, sounding less sure and confident than he usually does. His eyes are dark too, Lestrade notices, and he feels his own pulse rate kick up a notch. 

He doesn't wait to think about what he's doing, he just leans forward and kisses him.

Sherlock doesn't respond, his mouth is dry and still and it's more an uncomfortable press of lips rather than a kiss. So Lestrade pulls back. "Sorry, I - "

"I've never done anything," Sherlock says, like he's warning him. "Other than kiss."

Lestrade's brain tries to catch up with his words, work out what this means. He wishes he had Sherlock to solve this case for him. "Right, okay." 

"I don't know how to..." His voice sounds smaller than usual, laced with embarrassment at his admission and in turn coated in exasperation with himself at his own embarrassment.

"Alright, just - come here."

Feeling unnaturally clumsy, Lestrade reaches out for him, curls his fingers around the back of Sherlock's neck beneath his slightly open shirt collar and pulls him closer. Sherlock moves easily, clearly eager and ready, even if the tension belies that. Lestrade waits before kissing him, leaves them a simple breath apart as he tilts his head but lets his fingers focus on the smooth, pale skin of Sherlock's neck first, waiting until he feels goosebumps, holding back. Sherlock's neck is long and elegant, like the rest of him, and Lestrade runs the coarse pad of his thumb backwards and forwards over his pulse point, listening to the resulting hitch of breath.

A shiver runs underneath his hands and then Sherlock sighs with impatience through gritted teeth, "For God's sake, Lestrade; who's the virgin here, me or you?"

Lestrade huffs out a small breath of laughter before kissing him, and as soon as he does this time he feels Sherlock open up beneath him, mouth soft and precise, far from unpracticed. His lips are thin, and it's always a vague surprise kissing a man, but the strength in the returned kiss is enough to make his knees weak. 

They kiss until Lestrade starts needing more, a little something else like skin or hands or bed sheets at least to grip on to. When he breaks the kiss to say this, he realises Sherlock looks quite unlike himself, quite unraveled. 

It's rather distracting.

"I think we'd better... upstairs. The bed's a bit more comfortable."

"Yes, of course," Sherlock replies, and Lestrade is glad he at least still sounds like his composed self, clipped vowels and a sense of the practical. If either of them feel like they need another gulp of the whisky they don't show it, leaving the bottle abandoned on the table.

If he's being honest, Lestrade finds it difficult to walk up the stairs behind Sherlock without touching him - his warning senses have been flattened by the alcohol and everything else has been heightened by that kiss and the images in his head of what is about to happen. His fingers are tingling with want.

"Nice room," Sherlock says, somewhat sarcastically when they enter the bedroom. "Did the council wallpaper it for you?"

Lestrade takes his watch off and throws it on the bedside table. "Sherlock?"

"Hmm?"

Lestrade doesn't think he's ever seen him nervous, but he certainly has begun to look that way now, standing on ceremony at the bottom of the bed. He relaxes slightly the moment Lestrade puts his hands on either side of his face though, and there is still that unravelled look from a few moments ago. "Shut up, will you?" Lestrade asks against his mouth, and is rewarded by lips opening under his. A tongue brushes briefly along his bottom lip and Lestrade makes the smallest of satisfied noises in his throat, feeling another wave of heat wash through his stomach.

He manages not to groan, however, when he feels hands suddenly on his waist, pulling out the edges of his shirt with interesting haste - Sherlock was either going to be a timid virgin or an enthusiastic one, and Lestrade has seen him with a riding crop in the mortuary, so he was pretty sure which one he was getting. He pulls back obligingly as Sherlock goes at his buttons, hands quick and deft, and he tries to distract him with kisses to his jaw as he does so, working out from his chin to the base of his ear. 

Cool fingers push the shirt down off Lestrade's shoulders as soon as the buttons are undone and he pulls Sherlock a little bit closer when lips suddenly meet his neck - he hadn't been expecting that. Sherlock kisses the soft skin of his shoulder open mouthed and it feels oddly indecent but very, very good. Lestrade inhales deeply where he's buried in Sherlock's hair and lets his hands palm over the flat, taunt plains of a back still coated in an expensive, tailored shirt. When he dips lower, hands running shamelessly over Sherlock's behind and squeezing ever so gently, Lestrade almost jumps at the feel of a bite on his shoulder.

"Oi!" He says, pulling back at little. Sherlock is reluctant to stop kissing him to reply. "What was that for?"

"I liked that," Sherlock says. "Thought it was only polite to let you know."

Lestrade raises his head by placing two fingers on Sherlock's chin, bringing him back up for a proper kiss. "Since when have you started being polite?"

A hand slipping up into his hair whilst Sherlock kisses him again thoroughly distracts Lestrade from the answer to that one. He lets his own fingers scrabble at the buttons on the shirt Sherlock is wearing, and then tries not to contrast between the hard, firm planes of the chest underneath his hands and his own slightly older, slightly looser one. He hopes Sherlock doesn't notice.

"Come on, bed," he says, in between kisses, and eventually they part long enough to actually get on the damn thing, though not quite under the covers. 

Sherlock climbs on top of him, prowling up from his calves to his thighs and settling on his waist like a cat wanting attention. "Are you sure you've never done this before?" Lestrade asks when he feels the graze of teeth over his right nipple, and his body arches up involuntarily.

"Quite sure," Sherlock replies. "It doesn't mean I don't know what I want."

The implication that he wants _him_ unsteadies Lestrade's breathing just a little, aided moments later by more open mouthed kisses down his chest to the soft, sensitive skin of his stomach. His hands are nestled in Sherlock's hair - he can't help that, it's a knee-jerk reaction and those curls are so _soft._ His eyes flutter closed when Sherlock kisses just below his navel, half hoping for something he knows isn't going to happen, willing it to for just a second when he feels the brief swipe of a tongue above his hip bone.

He's not surprised a few moments later when Sherlock crawls back up his body though, kissing him again forcefully whilst Lestrade drags his hips down, creating friction until Sherlock starts rocking against him. 

It feels good - very good - and it soon stops the kiss. Sherlock makes a sound that is oddly like relief as he dips his head, burying himself in Lestrade's neck as their hips roll against each other, over and over again. He tries to remember the first time he did this with someone, how different it must have felt after years only on his own - there's nothing quite like another warm, responsive body underneath you. Nothing matches that. Lestrade really hopes Sherlock is learning that, already selfishly hoping this won't be the only time, that'll they'll be able to do this again.

Sherlock groans again, and Lestrade turns his head to kiss his ear, lips landing everywhere in his hair, on the soft skin of his temple. "You alright?"

"God, yes," Sherlock mutters, still obviously caught up in the sensation, and the tone of his voice trickles right down through Lestrade's stomach to his groin. Sherlock is hard against him and the logical part of his brain is wondering how long this is going to last.

"Come here," he says quietly, raising the head that's buried in his shoulder as gently as he can. He kisses Sherlock once before shifting them both so that he's no longer the one lying flat on his back.

"You're stopping that?" Sherlock asks. Lestrade can't help a small smile at how confused he sounds.

"Yes, I'm stopping that."

"Then you're definitely more stupid than I thought you were."

He doesn't get any more time for careless insults, however, because Lestrade is now undoing the button on those carefully tailored trousers, giving a little tug at the waistband until Sherlock lifts his hips and then pulling them down, discarding them off the edge of the bed. He tries not to stare at how perfect Sherlock's body looks, all smooth angles and clean lines. He's aware his own body hasn't looked like this in a long time. 

Not speaking, he initiates a kiss again, has to go to the remainder of his own clothing when Sherlock doesn't, but soon they're both finally naked. The first slide of skin against skin causes Sherlock's hand buried in his hair to tighten sharply, though he doesn't do anything as human as gasp - God forbid.

Lestrade pulls him closer, legs quickly slipping over one another shamelessly for more contact, more friction, and lying half on Sherlock's body he gives a little thrust against him just to get one of those hard-won groans in return. 

For some reason Lestrade finds he's nervous about touching him and doesn't realise he's tracing everywhere else on Sherlock's body but the place he should be until elegant fingers suddenly grasp at his. Without preamble, Sherlock pushes Lestrade's hand down between their bodies and gives a sharp bite to his bottom lip, as though urging him on.

"Are you teaching me again?" Lestrade asks, speaking against Sherlock's mouth as he obediently wraps his fingers tightly around him and flicks his wrist.

Sherlock replies with very obvious difficulty. "Well someone's got to." The sharp exhalation he gives after shows how much he's affected, along with the little noises he makes as Lestrade toys with him a little longer, moving his fingers slowly and agonisingly. Sherlock's kisses become less and less coordinated with every second and eventually Lestrade pushes him firmly back on the bed, kissing a messy path down his body, over his chest and down towards his stomach.

It's been a while - okay, more than a while - since he's done this, but he can hear Sherlock's breathing getting shorter and shorter as he makes his way down, so he can't bring himself to worry. The hand that had been leaving deep finger marks in his shoulder now moves up into his hair as Lestrade dips down, kisses one sharp hip bone and then the other.

When he looks up, he sees Sherlock is watching him. His curls look messy against the clean white of the pillow beneath his head and Lestrade has to remind himself briefly how they got here. The sight causes another wave of heat in his stomach, however, and his own body rather impatiently reminds him that no one has actually touched _him_ yet. He can feel an ache starting deep in his belly.

Not hesitating any longer, Lestrade dips his head back down, takes Sherlock expertly into his mouth and hears an uncharacteristic moan in reply. He tries not to feel too smug as he draws back carefully, using his tongue in all the places he knows he likes himself and then swallowing him down again until Sherlock's hand grips almost painfully in his hair.

Shamelessly the hand he doesn't have wrapped around the base of Sherlock he then pushes between his own legs, desperate for some release. It's been a long time - a very long time - since he's been with someone else and he can already feel he's not going to last very long. Hopefully later, or another time, he can prove the point that he doesn't have pathetic stamina, but right now all he can think about are the taut, held-back noises Sherlock is making and the sloppy, intricate mess he's making with his own tongue. He'd forgotten how much he liked this and he takes Sherlock in a little bit deeper just to hear another faintly strangled groan, feeling the body underneath him almost shaking with the effort not to give in too quickly.

When Sherlock comes, Lestrade swallows quickly, pushed closer to the edge himself by the sharp, distinct flavour on his tongue. He's barely had time to crawl back up the bed himself, lying on his back when he comes onto his own stomach, fingers wrapped tightly around himself, twisting his wrist to drag it out just a little until he's seeing stars behind his own closed eyes.

He feels blurred and sated from both the whisky and the sex and is seriously wondering about falling asleep when - 

"Do you snore?" Sherlock asks. He sounds sharp.

"What? No, I don't think so."

"Alright, then you can stay."

"Stay?" Lestrade frowns, leaning up on one elbow to look at the disheveled, flushed figure lying beside him. He can't help confess it's a gorgeous sight. "Sherlock, it's my bloody house."

"I know, but I'm a light sleeper."

For a moment he can't quite believe it and then - well, it's Sherlock, he supposes. Nothing is going to be any different now. "Well thank you, for letting me stay in my own bed."

"You're welcome," Sherlock says, and the faintest trace of a wry smile edges onto his features. 

Then he turns onto his side, facing away and drags a blanket from the bottom of the bed up over his shoulders. He doesn't leave any left for Lestrade.

_Just a bodily response,_ Lestrade thinks to himself, and wonders if there will ever be any more of those. He wants there to be. But with someone like Sherlock, how do you go about saying that?

Within a few moments the soft lull of the whisky has pulled them both under, and for a little while their breathing matches, slow and deep and even in the quiet of the bedroom.


End file.
